Just for kicks I thought I'd toss up what I've prepared and eaten for the last two nights. If anyone [namely my father] takes interest, I'll be sure to make this a weekly update.
10/01/09
2 chicken thighs
1 chicken drumstick
Salt
Pepper
- Heat pan, add olive oil. Put chicken in pan, put salt and pepper on top, turn and fry all exposed area until meat is cooked through and all exposed skin and flesh is browned and crispy.
1/2 large potato, chopped
1/2 large onion, chopped
1/2 large tomato, chopped
1/2 yellow bell pepper, chopped
5-6 chives, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 spring green union, sliced
- Heat pan, add olive oil. Add onion, cook till 1/4 translucent. Add potatoes, salt and pepper, stir/toss often. When potatoes are partly done, add tomatoes, peppers, garlic and green onions. Cook until potatoes are tender.
Serve and nom.
Save the leftovers for lunch the next day. 8D
_________
10/02/09
1/2 yellow bell pepper, chopped
1 whole firm, but ripe mango, cut into chunks
1 medium garlic clove, minced
4-6 chives, minced
Combine, mix, and put in the fridge to chill.
1/2 large potato, chopped
1/2 large tomato, chopped
1 large garlic clove, minced
4 chives, minced
5-6 sprigs parsley, minced
- Heat pan, add oil. Add potatoes, salt and pepper. Half way through cooking, add tomato. When just done, add garlic, chives and parsley. Add more salt and pepper if desired.
Serve and nom potatoes.
Eat fruit/veg/herb/garlic salad after.
Try it at home, kiddies. 8D
Friday, October 2, 2009
An Expanding List of Pubs I've Visited
The BrewMaster, Leicester Square
The John Baird, Muswell Hill
O'Neills, Muswell Hill
The World's End, Camden Town
The Elephant Head, Camden Town
The Devonshire Arms, Camden Town [You can tell I absolutely hate Camden.]
The Alexandra, Muswell Hill [Though I've yet to order there yet.]
The One Tun, Bloomsbury
The Duke of York: Greene King, Bloomsbury
The Duck N' Dive, Univerity of London Union, Bloomsbury
The John Baird, Muswell Hill
O'Neills, Muswell Hill
The World's End, Camden Town
The Elephant Head, Camden Town
The Devonshire Arms, Camden Town [You can tell I absolutely hate Camden.]
The Alexandra, Muswell Hill [Though I've yet to order there yet.]
The One Tun, Bloomsbury
The Duke of York: Greene King, Bloomsbury
The Duck N' Dive, Univerity of London Union, Bloomsbury
A Brief Aside
Upon looking over the photos, nearly three weeks in now, from my exploits in London, I completely and entirely forgot that for nearly the first week I had- what I felt to be anyhow- a massive, reddish brown scab on my face I received from some hot cooking oil that splashed on my face before I left the states. Flipping through the photos, I thought it looked like a small spot of ketchup or some such. I realize that it looks so insignificant and would I just left it alone it probably would've healed in four days instead of longer with me picking away at it.
Funny how things go like that.
A longer, more worth while post will be along within the next few hours.
Funny how things go like that.
A longer, more worth while post will be along within the next few hours.
The Cultural Orgasm that is Camden Town
You stare, from the corner of your eye, down the barrel of a shotgun- you feel the eager desire of the shot nestled within its chamber grinning, you are sure, with delight at the immanence with which it will soon be burrowing through your skull. You've been warned of this, of the fate which you so willingly set yourself to, a fools fate, a laughable fate. Your body should be tense, every muscle fiber taught, and quivering in anticipation for the thing with which you are about to marry, to be forever wrapped and warped with by a smoldering conflagration: you'd been told to prepare yourself.
Bowed upon your tender knees, thin moments before the hammer trembles upon its silvery, delicate hinge and swiftly swings to execute the duty which you so foolishly asked of it, you do no such preparation; kneeling upon the cold stone, damp with some unknown wetness. You but notice one word etched into the metal of the gun, a stolen glance of your assailant.
You hear a flash and smell- for but an instance- gunpowder, of a variety which you know to herald from India, and grease which is often shipped from Mexico.
You breath in.
Camden.
You brain and blood spray across the walls in arcs painted with sundered angel wings or demon wings or some other winged thing unknown to the eyes of man, glistening dazzlingly in the fire and sparks still rocketing from the orifices of the shotgun, the orange-white glow mixing opulently with the deep red sliding in great drips down the aged stone; collecting in the crooks and crevices betwixt the bricks, only to fill and spill further down and pool into the splattered collective of your once intelligent bits, now lain bare upon the floor.
Camden Town.
A Labyrinth of Wonders.
You hear of it before you smell it, you smell it before you see it, and you see it before your mind is removed and thoroughly disposed of by all the wonders kept snugly tied within its confines.
I'm referring specifically to the Camden Lock Market and interwoven Camden Stable Market, though the conjoining sections of Kentish Town Road or any branch from the square where the tube empties should by no means be discounted.
The smell of High Street, I believe is it called, is a savory, decadent one; a lesser version of the mouthwatering extravaganza of the Lock and Stable markets where you would be hard pressed to not walk through the billowing aromatic clouds wafting from food vendors rooted at every street corner and seeding thoroughly through out. Chinese, Thai, Indian, Crepes, Italian and even Mexican cuisine are available in delightful excess. These stands need no advertising, the smell alone draws patrons in droves to their counter top. Stitch in the intermittent curl of incense smoke, slithering up from a lit stick crouched by a shop door; the occasional wave of sumptuous leather tang rolling out from among thousands of other perfumes native to each respective good for sale within the market and the Lock and Stable Markets are an veritable olfactory orgy.
The visuals of Camden Town are, to say the least, overwhelming; especially when throngs of people swarm through the narrow passages like minnows within a great coral reef. The trodden gray stone streets, framed ever tightly by lofty buildings, further truncated from the world by thousands of reaching shade canopies from store fronts, further stuffed with steel-lace pagodas and monstrously massive metal horses are the walkways which spill out into vast plazas, exhaling the sweet riches packed within the thin market mazes to the sky above and city beyond. Even outside the Lock and Stable Markets, the tall shops that line the street leading in are decorated with fantastic sculpted figurines that advertise the wares within as no two dimensional sign ever could; massive Chinese Dragons peer down bemused, giant Scorpions dangle shoes of equal size above pedestrians below.
The most notable example of this is Cyberdog, whereupon potential patrons are greeted by two giant metallic cybernetic figures standing like soldiers at either side of the store entrance in stark contrast to the rustic, stone and iron Marketplace. A human worm shuffles in and out of Cyberdog ceaselessly, a testament to their keen advertising and amazing product. The whole of Cyberdog is nothing but silver metallic and clean whites, neon lights and low black lights, their wares to sell being raver attire. upon entering the vast chasm of pulsing techno beat, you can spot the various wonderfully outlandishly dressed attendants ready to answer any questions that may arise from the constant sea of people. High above on platforms jutting out from the wall, two dancers move- liquid popping- to the music, clothed in the goods of the store. A steep escalator takes shoppers downstairs to the real merchandise floor which, underground, stretches for yards and is filled with menagerie of designs and accessories.
Most of the Lock Marketplace is above ground and stretches the length of the Camden Lock. Somewhere within the perplexing network of that Marketplace several entrances to the Stables Marketplace are found, two of which descend to be subterranean. I've yet to trek the whole of either Marketplace, let alone the bits below of the Stables Marketplace. But what I've seen herein so far has been the biggest clash of culture that I've ever seen. It's absolutely remarkable how different clothing styles, cultures and people can traipse the streets side by side with not a shred of disdain for one another. It's like some miraculous sort of equilibrium in this gorgeous city that balances out every walk of life into a harmonious blend so savory you'd want steep it and sip it every morning instead of coffee.
Naturally I don't live there or have the benefit of drinking in the atmosphere everyday, and I've no doubt it gets tiresome, as everything does. But at the moment, Camden Town is be far the most whimsical and peculiar of places, a spiced bizarre in the midst of tight laced London. Not to suggest that the quaint and quiet of High Barnet, where I reside, is no less satisfactory. I wouldn't live anywhere but where I do, even if I live here full time.
Camden Town is simply a wonderful place. I plan to visit there as oft as I can, while spending as little as I can. A tall order for a short individual; a challenge I am often faced with and take great pleasure in accomplishing.
I must hop to the bath and get ready for the Fresher Fayer today, whatever is left of it. Trying to network with Brits.
Wish Me Luck. ;3
8D
Bowed upon your tender knees, thin moments before the hammer trembles upon its silvery, delicate hinge and swiftly swings to execute the duty which you so foolishly asked of it, you do no such preparation; kneeling upon the cold stone, damp with some unknown wetness. You but notice one word etched into the metal of the gun, a stolen glance of your assailant.
You hear a flash and smell- for but an instance- gunpowder, of a variety which you know to herald from India, and grease which is often shipped from Mexico.
You breath in.
Camden.
You brain and blood spray across the walls in arcs painted with sundered angel wings or demon wings or some other winged thing unknown to the eyes of man, glistening dazzlingly in the fire and sparks still rocketing from the orifices of the shotgun, the orange-white glow mixing opulently with the deep red sliding in great drips down the aged stone; collecting in the crooks and crevices betwixt the bricks, only to fill and spill further down and pool into the splattered collective of your once intelligent bits, now lain bare upon the floor.
Camden Town.
A Labyrinth of Wonders.
You hear of it before you smell it, you smell it before you see it, and you see it before your mind is removed and thoroughly disposed of by all the wonders kept snugly tied within its confines.
I'm referring specifically to the Camden Lock Market and interwoven Camden Stable Market, though the conjoining sections of Kentish Town Road or any branch from the square where the tube empties should by no means be discounted.
The smell of High Street, I believe is it called, is a savory, decadent one; a lesser version of the mouthwatering extravaganza of the Lock and Stable markets where you would be hard pressed to not walk through the billowing aromatic clouds wafting from food vendors rooted at every street corner and seeding thoroughly through out. Chinese, Thai, Indian, Crepes, Italian and even Mexican cuisine are available in delightful excess. These stands need no advertising, the smell alone draws patrons in droves to their counter top. Stitch in the intermittent curl of incense smoke, slithering up from a lit stick crouched by a shop door; the occasional wave of sumptuous leather tang rolling out from among thousands of other perfumes native to each respective good for sale within the market and the Lock and Stable Markets are an veritable olfactory orgy.
The visuals of Camden Town are, to say the least, overwhelming; especially when throngs of people swarm through the narrow passages like minnows within a great coral reef. The trodden gray stone streets, framed ever tightly by lofty buildings, further truncated from the world by thousands of reaching shade canopies from store fronts, further stuffed with steel-lace pagodas and monstrously massive metal horses are the walkways which spill out into vast plazas, exhaling the sweet riches packed within the thin market mazes to the sky above and city beyond. Even outside the Lock and Stable Markets, the tall shops that line the street leading in are decorated with fantastic sculpted figurines that advertise the wares within as no two dimensional sign ever could; massive Chinese Dragons peer down bemused, giant Scorpions dangle shoes of equal size above pedestrians below.
The most notable example of this is Cyberdog, whereupon potential patrons are greeted by two giant metallic cybernetic figures standing like soldiers at either side of the store entrance in stark contrast to the rustic, stone and iron Marketplace. A human worm shuffles in and out of Cyberdog ceaselessly, a testament to their keen advertising and amazing product. The whole of Cyberdog is nothing but silver metallic and clean whites, neon lights and low black lights, their wares to sell being raver attire. upon entering the vast chasm of pulsing techno beat, you can spot the various wonderfully outlandishly dressed attendants ready to answer any questions that may arise from the constant sea of people. High above on platforms jutting out from the wall, two dancers move- liquid popping- to the music, clothed in the goods of the store. A steep escalator takes shoppers downstairs to the real merchandise floor which, underground, stretches for yards and is filled with menagerie of designs and accessories.
Most of the Lock Marketplace is above ground and stretches the length of the Camden Lock. Somewhere within the perplexing network of that Marketplace several entrances to the Stables Marketplace are found, two of which descend to be subterranean. I've yet to trek the whole of either Marketplace, let alone the bits below of the Stables Marketplace. But what I've seen herein so far has been the biggest clash of culture that I've ever seen. It's absolutely remarkable how different clothing styles, cultures and people can traipse the streets side by side with not a shred of disdain for one another. It's like some miraculous sort of equilibrium in this gorgeous city that balances out every walk of life into a harmonious blend so savory you'd want steep it and sip it every morning instead of coffee.
Naturally I don't live there or have the benefit of drinking in the atmosphere everyday, and I've no doubt it gets tiresome, as everything does. But at the moment, Camden Town is be far the most whimsical and peculiar of places, a spiced bizarre in the midst of tight laced London. Not to suggest that the quaint and quiet of High Barnet, where I reside, is no less satisfactory. I wouldn't live anywhere but where I do, even if I live here full time.
Camden Town is simply a wonderful place. I plan to visit there as oft as I can, while spending as little as I can. A tall order for a short individual; a challenge I am often faced with and take great pleasure in accomplishing.
I must hop to the bath and get ready for the Fresher Fayer today, whatever is left of it. Trying to network with Brits.
Wish Me Luck. ;3
8D
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Small but Prominent News
I have internet at my house.
Rejoice in that updates will be more frequent and far less disjointed.
HUZZAH 8D
Rejoice in that updates will be more frequent and far less disjointed.
HUZZAH 8D
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Menage Au Trois
So here we sit, in time for another update. Sadly I feel I will only be able to update once a week given the nature of my classes, workload, travel and time and need to be in the city as opposed to cooped up within the stuffy, drab confines of a computer lab.
Speaking of classes, my art teacher is a million crayons short of a crayola box. Yes, the woman is in attendance of about one crayon, and the color of that crayon is off her trolley. Apparently, being capable and intelligent adults who spent their hard earned money on art supplies for her class are not allowed to share it with those students less fiscally fortunate. She would not allow students to simply donate or give half their chamois to students lacking, oh no, she demanded full monetary compensation for the student with chamois to give.
Really? Because I think that, having paid for my chamois, I can snip the thing to ribbons and let whoever under the sun take a bit of it. She utterly disorganized, patronizing, condescending and insane. Literally. Were I able I would away to some other class by my Film as Literature teacher, alas, I feel I am too late in the second week of school to alter classes, let along obtain the books and hand-outs needed for the courses. I will try and take said English teachers advice and maintain a Zen approach to the god-forsaken class for as much as I can.
Though I doubt such a mentality can erase the pain of dragging all my art supplies around London, while on any given day the course will be utilizing a scant 5% thereof.
Alas I digress terribly.
In this journal I wish to expound on three things, which, though related, should be dealt with independently. British Social Life, Attire in London and Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre.
Let us approach them from behind and tackle the thing which is “As You Like It” at the Globe Theatre with all the love and ardor it deserves.
Shakespeare’s work has always delighted me, both the comedy and tragedy; his work has been honored for decades upon decades. Yet I have never felt the same throngs of invigoration and bliss as I have when seeing it live at The Globe.
The structure was gorgeous, dripping, pouring out its age from every grain in the wood, every stroke of golden paint, every scaffolding, every balcony- from the stone floors, to the rosy-orange hue of the London sky passing above, occasionally breathing down a cool, sigh to refresh observer hugged close about the wooden stage upon which the majestic and wry writings of Shakespeare did unfold through gesture and expression of marvelous actors layered in such rich and luxurious costumes as I had never seen before. I’m sure it helped that I had never seen any professional production of Shakespeare before in my life.
Regardless, the colors, the lights, the actors, the crowd, the music, the singing, the dancing- it was the most remarkable thing I’ve experienced in England so far. I quite enjoyed the jester; his performance was paramount and his audience interaction too divine. He was my favorite, but all the actors were just amazing. Being so close, seeing them from so different an angle, the closeness of the entire theatre, it was magical and something I shall treasure until the end of my life, without a doubt.
Walking back across the Thames, the sky-hue, city lights and ambient light reflected along the sliding, curling surface of that vast and wending river, I felt peace and contentment unrivaled, supported by an unyielding sense of possibility and ability to achieve.
I felt exhilarated and exalted, tranquil and balanced.
London is beautiful, and in the inky-orange of its night-veil I strode gladly home to sleep and dream of my coming days in this magnificent city.
Interesting side fact, there were a lot of Germans at the play. I found out later in the program that a theatrical arts school over there has some mass visit to The Globe.
Now then, on to more technical and sociological topics; British Social Life and Attire in London. These two are nearly interchangeable in that I have observed that the nature of the latter will dictate the nature of the first. I apologize here if this bores you, bit I find the sociological phenomenon attached to the abstract concepts of style and fashion to utterly entertaining and fascinating. How such drivel shapes out social interactions and interpersonal action is amazing, and often have I stewed on how different out world would be if we were rid of its constraints and implements. Let us take, for example, my exploits just last evening.
I was dressed thusly, and off to what I was told was a casual pub within the SOHO area of London, just a ways from Leicester Square. Interesting thing about Leicester Square, it always seems to be drizzling when I go there, though it is dry everywhere else in London. Anyhow, so there I was in my knee high black boots and so forth, walking around the heart of Leicester Square, which I have traversed several times prior- once my first night in London, the other for a classmates Birthday- wandering up a street to get directions from a door guard and then walking back down and around to find Greek Street.
I ambled blithely about the side-streets in search of the SOHO Bar, passing rock bars, and a curious pub I am sure to investigate later by the name of The Intrepid Fox. Cutting across streets I made my way, which is always such fun as jaywalking in the UK is absolutely acceptable- I do so delight in darting out during a break in traffick to shore off a few minutes of my commute. I mean that in earnest, I am dumbfounded as to why jaywalking is illegal in America if pedestrians have the right-of-way anyhow. I digress.
I nosed around a few streets, peering at bright-lit neon designs clinging seductively to the brick and stone out-croppings of looming buildings when by stroke of luck while idly following a quirky chap with an umbrella ( Much unbeknownst to him.) I caught sight of the sign of the SOHO Bar in the distance. Clean white light cut out of a neat silver sign. Clean and silver did not bode well with my leather bomber jacket and fishnet gloves. As I came in on my approach I noticed an imposing bouncer standing firmly in front of the entrance with calm demeanor and folded hands.
I walked past without a word.
As I sat on the tube sailing to my back-up location for intrigue and atmosphere that evening- Camden Town- I regretted not at least attempting to gain entry; sentiments which were echoed later by my roommate and an Old Irishman who I spoke to at The Devonshire Arms pub in Camden, which has now been bought out by the Hobgoblin Brewery.
The Dev. The Devonshire Arms is a fine example of a London rock bar/pub. It is as if Hot Topic underwent some odd metamorphosis and became an establishment dedicated to getting pissed. (Piss drunk, in the UK, you see.) All the bartenders had at least one piercing and a tattoo. Its patrons were varied, of the casual rocker, to the punkers which carry on the opulence of long dead England save that they adorn themselves not in as much fine silk and jewels as they can, but as much steel and chain as they can. Even those which swing between an every man and posh were seen hailing the bar-tender with jovial cries of familiarity.
Here we must pause to establish two things. One is that I was thoroughly chided by aforementioned Old Irishman for going out in London by myself, which was later denounced by the son of the household that I am residing in (Or house-brother, as we call him, his name is Andrew.). Not terribly pertinent to the discussion, but interesting none the less. I’ve been told by many that London is safe, and then a great many in The Dev told me such was not so. I could assume they simply herald from an unsavory part of town. Or I could assume they become louty drunks that get into fights.
I think I shall stick with not being stupid and still venture out alone on occasion. Such seems the best.
The other thing that must be established is the different looks I have garnered in various outfits, in various regions of London. My roommate dresses in a very posh manner, and it suits her beautifully. I run a gambit between punk, rock, beach-bum, hippie, posh and deformed mixtures of the former. A week ago I went out with my room mate for a night on the town with Andrew and his mates as it was his friends’ birthday. I was wearing my knee high black boots, a knee-length pin-striped skirt, my pinstripe vest over a large pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The gents we were going out with were posh, of varying degrees. They were friendly, fun to talk to, interesting and constantly poked fun at my pedantic demeanor. They didn’t seem much to mind how I was dressed, most probably because I was already befriended by Andrew. The looks I received in that outfit were a mixture of intrigue and genuine interest, for though the articles of my attire were of a punk/goth nature they were assembled in a business/posh fashion. I was told that evening by one of the closer friends of Andrew who walked Natalie and I home (Andrew had left early in the evening to attend to his fiancé.) that I should check out Camden because of what I wore.
Similarly when I wore the outfit below, when out in Leicester Square last weekend for a classmates birthday, I received a mixture of intrigue and genuine interest, with little to no reproach, most likely on behalf of my leather biker jacket.
Now as to my knee high-boots and pink leopard print pants, surprisingly, the reactions to my attire were all over the map- some in business attire regarded me favorably, some in casual punk rocker clothes looked away nervously. When individuals found my clothes offensive they averted their eyes and made sure to not look back, I could feel their distaste pour off them in waves, it was amazing. The most interesting encounter was when I was on the tube back home to deposit my belongings before my outing in search of the SOHO Bar. Across the row of seats in the tube carriage I was on there stood four boys. As they chatted, me with my ear-buds in, they would occasionally glance at me and look away when our eyes met. Then at one point they looked at me in turn for longer intervals, with a mixture of offense, interest and mocking painted on their face. The last bloke to look at me held my gaze in his for so long, with so confused and intense a stare that I smartly jerked my eyebrows up while looking at him so that he finally looked away. They didn’t look back much after that.
So at The Dev various people in rock-punk attire spoke with me about London and travel and booze. I’m sure the only reason they though to approach me was due to the way I was dressed, they assumed I was like-minded because I was similarly clothed.
On the whole I’ve found London to be outwardly pigeon-holed by attire, though more open to whomever as being a multi-faceted individual once the two get to talking. Americans, on the other hand, attempt to be more outwardly open-minded while clinging more ferociously to stereotypes which follow along with attire.
It’s all stupid, really. I know that despite how I dress that I’m not deluded in the social clout which many assume attends punk-rock attire. I dress in a variety of ways, and my personality exists in many realms beyond what I may be wearing. I enjoy, simply, how those articles of clothing make me look. I like fishnets and boots. I enjoy wearing them. That doesn’t mean I enjoy being knocked in the head a mosh pit or am a Goth who is obsessed with the dour gloom of life.
Ach well.
I’ve been writing this for far too long and I’m sure by now it’s far too convoluted to be of any interest. I wish I had the quid to get a bite, alas at the moment my money is in a bind.
Au Revoir until next time. Hopefully I’ll have more clarity then. XD
Speaking of classes, my art teacher is a million crayons short of a crayola box. Yes, the woman is in attendance of about one crayon, and the color of that crayon is off her trolley. Apparently, being capable and intelligent adults who spent their hard earned money on art supplies for her class are not allowed to share it with those students less fiscally fortunate. She would not allow students to simply donate or give half their chamois to students lacking, oh no, she demanded full monetary compensation for the student with chamois to give.
Really? Because I think that, having paid for my chamois, I can snip the thing to ribbons and let whoever under the sun take a bit of it. She utterly disorganized, patronizing, condescending and insane. Literally. Were I able I would away to some other class by my Film as Literature teacher, alas, I feel I am too late in the second week of school to alter classes, let along obtain the books and hand-outs needed for the courses. I will try and take said English teachers advice and maintain a Zen approach to the god-forsaken class for as much as I can.
Though I doubt such a mentality can erase the pain of dragging all my art supplies around London, while on any given day the course will be utilizing a scant 5% thereof.
Alas I digress terribly.
In this journal I wish to expound on three things, which, though related, should be dealt with independently. British Social Life, Attire in London and Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre.
Let us approach them from behind and tackle the thing which is “As You Like It” at the Globe Theatre with all the love and ardor it deserves.
Shakespeare’s work has always delighted me, both the comedy and tragedy; his work has been honored for decades upon decades. Yet I have never felt the same throngs of invigoration and bliss as I have when seeing it live at The Globe.
The structure was gorgeous, dripping, pouring out its age from every grain in the wood, every stroke of golden paint, every scaffolding, every balcony- from the stone floors, to the rosy-orange hue of the London sky passing above, occasionally breathing down a cool, sigh to refresh observer hugged close about the wooden stage upon which the majestic and wry writings of Shakespeare did unfold through gesture and expression of marvelous actors layered in such rich and luxurious costumes as I had never seen before. I’m sure it helped that I had never seen any professional production of Shakespeare before in my life.
Regardless, the colors, the lights, the actors, the crowd, the music, the singing, the dancing- it was the most remarkable thing I’ve experienced in England so far. I quite enjoyed the jester; his performance was paramount and his audience interaction too divine. He was my favorite, but all the actors were just amazing. Being so close, seeing them from so different an angle, the closeness of the entire theatre, it was magical and something I shall treasure until the end of my life, without a doubt.
Walking back across the Thames, the sky-hue, city lights and ambient light reflected along the sliding, curling surface of that vast and wending river, I felt peace and contentment unrivaled, supported by an unyielding sense of possibility and ability to achieve.
I felt exhilarated and exalted, tranquil and balanced.
London is beautiful, and in the inky-orange of its night-veil I strode gladly home to sleep and dream of my coming days in this magnificent city.
Interesting side fact, there were a lot of Germans at the play. I found out later in the program that a theatrical arts school over there has some mass visit to The Globe.
Now then, on to more technical and sociological topics; British Social Life and Attire in London. These two are nearly interchangeable in that I have observed that the nature of the latter will dictate the nature of the first. I apologize here if this bores you, bit I find the sociological phenomenon attached to the abstract concepts of style and fashion to utterly entertaining and fascinating. How such drivel shapes out social interactions and interpersonal action is amazing, and often have I stewed on how different out world would be if we were rid of its constraints and implements. Let us take, for example, my exploits just last evening.
I was dressed thusly, and off to what I was told was a casual pub within the SOHO area of London, just a ways from Leicester Square. Interesting thing about Leicester Square, it always seems to be drizzling when I go there, though it is dry everywhere else in London. Anyhow, so there I was in my knee high black boots and so forth, walking around the heart of Leicester Square, which I have traversed several times prior- once my first night in London, the other for a classmates Birthday- wandering up a street to get directions from a door guard and then walking back down and around to find Greek Street.
I ambled blithely about the side-streets in search of the SOHO Bar, passing rock bars, and a curious pub I am sure to investigate later by the name of The Intrepid Fox. Cutting across streets I made my way, which is always such fun as jaywalking in the UK is absolutely acceptable- I do so delight in darting out during a break in traffick to shore off a few minutes of my commute. I mean that in earnest, I am dumbfounded as to why jaywalking is illegal in America if pedestrians have the right-of-way anyhow. I digress.
I nosed around a few streets, peering at bright-lit neon designs clinging seductively to the brick and stone out-croppings of looming buildings when by stroke of luck while idly following a quirky chap with an umbrella ( Much unbeknownst to him.) I caught sight of the sign of the SOHO Bar in the distance. Clean white light cut out of a neat silver sign. Clean and silver did not bode well with my leather bomber jacket and fishnet gloves. As I came in on my approach I noticed an imposing bouncer standing firmly in front of the entrance with calm demeanor and folded hands.
I walked past without a word.
As I sat on the tube sailing to my back-up location for intrigue and atmosphere that evening- Camden Town- I regretted not at least attempting to gain entry; sentiments which were echoed later by my roommate and an Old Irishman who I spoke to at The Devonshire Arms pub in Camden, which has now been bought out by the Hobgoblin Brewery.
The Dev. The Devonshire Arms is a fine example of a London rock bar/pub. It is as if Hot Topic underwent some odd metamorphosis and became an establishment dedicated to getting pissed. (Piss drunk, in the UK, you see.) All the bartenders had at least one piercing and a tattoo. Its patrons were varied, of the casual rocker, to the punkers which carry on the opulence of long dead England save that they adorn themselves not in as much fine silk and jewels as they can, but as much steel and chain as they can. Even those which swing between an every man and posh were seen hailing the bar-tender with jovial cries of familiarity.
Here we must pause to establish two things. One is that I was thoroughly chided by aforementioned Old Irishman for going out in London by myself, which was later denounced by the son of the household that I am residing in (Or house-brother, as we call him, his name is Andrew.). Not terribly pertinent to the discussion, but interesting none the less. I’ve been told by many that London is safe, and then a great many in The Dev told me such was not so. I could assume they simply herald from an unsavory part of town. Or I could assume they become louty drunks that get into fights.
I think I shall stick with not being stupid and still venture out alone on occasion. Such seems the best.
The other thing that must be established is the different looks I have garnered in various outfits, in various regions of London. My roommate dresses in a very posh manner, and it suits her beautifully. I run a gambit between punk, rock, beach-bum, hippie, posh and deformed mixtures of the former. A week ago I went out with my room mate for a night on the town with Andrew and his mates as it was his friends’ birthday. I was wearing my knee high black boots, a knee-length pin-striped skirt, my pinstripe vest over a large pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The gents we were going out with were posh, of varying degrees. They were friendly, fun to talk to, interesting and constantly poked fun at my pedantic demeanor. They didn’t seem much to mind how I was dressed, most probably because I was already befriended by Andrew. The looks I received in that outfit were a mixture of intrigue and genuine interest, for though the articles of my attire were of a punk/goth nature they were assembled in a business/posh fashion. I was told that evening by one of the closer friends of Andrew who walked Natalie and I home (Andrew had left early in the evening to attend to his fiancé.) that I should check out Camden because of what I wore.
Similarly when I wore the outfit below, when out in Leicester Square last weekend for a classmates birthday, I received a mixture of intrigue and genuine interest, with little to no reproach, most likely on behalf of my leather biker jacket.
Now as to my knee high-boots and pink leopard print pants, surprisingly, the reactions to my attire were all over the map- some in business attire regarded me favorably, some in casual punk rocker clothes looked away nervously. When individuals found my clothes offensive they averted their eyes and made sure to not look back, I could feel their distaste pour off them in waves, it was amazing. The most interesting encounter was when I was on the tube back home to deposit my belongings before my outing in search of the SOHO Bar. Across the row of seats in the tube carriage I was on there stood four boys. As they chatted, me with my ear-buds in, they would occasionally glance at me and look away when our eyes met. Then at one point they looked at me in turn for longer intervals, with a mixture of offense, interest and mocking painted on their face. The last bloke to look at me held my gaze in his for so long, with so confused and intense a stare that I smartly jerked my eyebrows up while looking at him so that he finally looked away. They didn’t look back much after that.
So at The Dev various people in rock-punk attire spoke with me about London and travel and booze. I’m sure the only reason they though to approach me was due to the way I was dressed, they assumed I was like-minded because I was similarly clothed.
On the whole I’ve found London to be outwardly pigeon-holed by attire, though more open to whomever as being a multi-faceted individual once the two get to talking. Americans, on the other hand, attempt to be more outwardly open-minded while clinging more ferociously to stereotypes which follow along with attire.
It’s all stupid, really. I know that despite how I dress that I’m not deluded in the social clout which many assume attends punk-rock attire. I dress in a variety of ways, and my personality exists in many realms beyond what I may be wearing. I enjoy, simply, how those articles of clothing make me look. I like fishnets and boots. I enjoy wearing them. That doesn’t mean I enjoy being knocked in the head a mosh pit or am a Goth who is obsessed with the dour gloom of life.
Ach well.
I’ve been writing this for far too long and I’m sure by now it’s far too convoluted to be of any interest. I wish I had the quid to get a bite, alas at the moment my money is in a bind.
Au Revoir until next time. Hopefully I’ll have more clarity then. XD
Thursday, September 17, 2009
London Herein So Far
I apologize for the lack of updates. Wireless internet alludes me in this lovely, drippy land; though my roommate and I are plotting to converge our finances and remedy the situation with a router.
Regardless, this experience has been enlightening, though is has just begun. Let us begin by dispelling a few erroneous stereotypes which disfigure its glorious form, much like the blanket of clouds that swathes its physical personage.
I inhaled…crisp, fresh. Clean. Like home. Exactly like home.
There have been only two instances in which any offensive odours have struck my nostrils with their terrible hammers. There is one section of stairs leading to and from the underground platform which I take to university where there is a rotten, putrid scent. Either someone vomits there every morning, or it’s haunted be some foul smelling spectre. The only other occasion where the city befouled itself was when it rained. I suppose the water itself was of a poor nature, but I’ve no doubt it pulled the fumes and so forth from the roofs and gutters, giving them new life. It could’ve been, also, that
Oh and what rain it was! Rain such I haven’t seen back home in years. Which touches upon another interesting note, how most individuals in
In short,
The Tube/Underground. The tube is not nearly as bad as it is made out to be. It is quick, it is quiet and it is efficient.
The tea here is excellent, naturally, the best black tea I’ve ever had, brewed right in my home. Houses, fridges, cabinets, waterclosets- everything really, is all so very small. And being a small person, this is delightful. There is no shower in my house, only a bath, which speaks to me of another manner in which the speed of the city is tempered with the necessity of tradition and those old things that breath in the richness of the ages.
The architecture is breathtaking. There is more dignity in the stoop to my home than any flat in the confines of
There are some unsavoury things about the
Unsurprisingly,
This is a city I would love to live in for years.
Maybe one day, I will.
Now I must be off to figure out how to buy Franz Ferdinand concert tickets through a
More tales a more specific colour to follow.
Cheers!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Departing...No Matter What
I've all my things packed, with the exception of my carry-on and laptop.
My ticket hasn't arrived yet, and to say the least we're in a bit of a tizzy being as I'm supposed to leave at 5:35pm today. So...yeah.
I'm getting on the plane though, if I have to blast my way on it with a sawed-off shot-gun.
Time to call UPS and give them the what for.
I depart today.
My ticket hasn't arrived yet, and to say the least we're in a bit of a tizzy being as I'm supposed to leave at 5:35pm today. So...yeah.
I'm getting on the plane though, if I have to blast my way on it with a sawed-off shot-gun.
Time to call UPS and give them the what for.
I depart today.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Looking into the Eyes of the Untraveled
As this journal is supposed to record my thoughts and experiences regarding this journey abroad, I felt it best to jot down a sentiment relating to this while I'm still state-side.
In recent days, running around to various places and in passing informing people of my journey soon to be, there's something I've noticed about people that really gets to me. The best example of this would be the cashier, and presumably owner, of the gas station in my sub-community. She knows my face and we'll talk about how I'm doing in college and so forth whenever I fuel up. But when I mentioned my immanent departure, her face took on characterization which was an unsettling mixture of admiration, sorrow, want and a little bit of contempt.
It's just...really kinda heart breaking, the look they give me.
Like I'm stealing their son away to marry him, to elope. Like I'd breeched some private bitterment of the past, not to be mentioned.
The main colour of their face is a far off sort of sadness, I can see them biting back some measure of words, the marginal nod, a half forced smile, the sort of dark, withdrawn quality in their eyes as they gaze at me intently- the light glinting off their pupils. I won't draw any concrete conclusions as to why they look at me this way, except that perhaps they have not been able to travel themselves and that their age they doubt they will. This look is predominantly in older women, far my senior, but not seniors per say. 50-60s, I would say, and most of them women I wouldn't necessarily call friends or individuals that would miss me.
It differs far and wide from the reaction and look I've received from my peers, both traveled and untraveled. A friend of mine, I've no clue if he's ever traveled, but he was ecstatic for my trip and inquired with joy and verve of my plans, and requested that I keep record of my travels for my own benefit and that he and others might read of my travels. So have many others like him, most of my intimate friends have been highly enthusiastic, not without a chaser of sadness that I will be gone, but on the whole happy. Oddly, my parents enthusiasm has also started taking on the same quality as the women I've spoken to about my trip, but only recently.
It's odd, and startling, and strange. I, again, can't discern what the cause of the sorrowful looks are, but it's awkward and makes me want to vacate whatever locale as soon as possible.
That's all really. I should be off for a root canal soon, and then hopefully dinner and a movie with friends.
I depart in two days.
In recent days, running around to various places and in passing informing people of my journey soon to be, there's something I've noticed about people that really gets to me. The best example of this would be the cashier, and presumably owner, of the gas station in my sub-community. She knows my face and we'll talk about how I'm doing in college and so forth whenever I fuel up. But when I mentioned my immanent departure, her face took on characterization which was an unsettling mixture of admiration, sorrow, want and a little bit of contempt.
It's just...really kinda heart breaking, the look they give me.
Like I'm stealing their son away to marry him, to elope. Like I'd breeched some private bitterment of the past, not to be mentioned.
The main colour of their face is a far off sort of sadness, I can see them biting back some measure of words, the marginal nod, a half forced smile, the sort of dark, withdrawn quality in their eyes as they gaze at me intently- the light glinting off their pupils. I won't draw any concrete conclusions as to why they look at me this way, except that perhaps they have not been able to travel themselves and that their age they doubt they will. This look is predominantly in older women, far my senior, but not seniors per say. 50-60s, I would say, and most of them women I wouldn't necessarily call friends or individuals that would miss me.
It differs far and wide from the reaction and look I've received from my peers, both traveled and untraveled. A friend of mine, I've no clue if he's ever traveled, but he was ecstatic for my trip and inquired with joy and verve of my plans, and requested that I keep record of my travels for my own benefit and that he and others might read of my travels. So have many others like him, most of my intimate friends have been highly enthusiastic, not without a chaser of sadness that I will be gone, but on the whole happy. Oddly, my parents enthusiasm has also started taking on the same quality as the women I've spoken to about my trip, but only recently.
It's odd, and startling, and strange. I, again, can't discern what the cause of the sorrowful looks are, but it's awkward and makes me want to vacate whatever locale as soon as possible.
That's all really. I should be off for a root canal soon, and then hopefully dinner and a movie with friends.
I depart in two days.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Reaping the Rewards
This morning I received notice that my travel paperwork and airline ticket has been posted via overnight mail, placing it, assuming no delays, on my door stoop Tuesday morning.
Without a doubt actually holding the parcel in hand will cement the reality of my immanent departure, though the knowledge of it moving swiftly through the night to me has, at the moment equal impact.
Despite certain astronomical calculations, the full moon in September is generally considered to be the Harvest Moon, though this year it falls in October. I can say that I feel a good measure of satisfaction looking back upon at all the scrambling and beuracratic jogging I had to do to get here, but more importantly the classes I've achieved to get here. In many ways, this is the academic vacation for obtaining my AA in December- no occasion to really make a scene over, but I'm still proud of it; it is mine to enjoy and savor. Why not savor and seek more at the same time?
It is very appropriate that both moons which carry the connotation of reaping rewards would fall within the time prior to my departure and just after my arrival; The Harvest Moon of September, and the Blood Moon of October. (The Blood Moon for the long time past practice of slaughtering animals for the winter months.) Being of the persuasion that I am, I am very grateful for those within my life that have given me the focus and drive to carry on, both corporeal and beyond, who may or may not have known their influence.
I believe I shall sleep on the roof tonight, under the stars and that shining globe of fulfillment and accomplishment which sails ever elegantly through the cold dark, coloring everything with her delicate, luminous pallor.
I have so much yet to do and so little time to do it in.
I depart in six days.
Without a doubt actually holding the parcel in hand will cement the reality of my immanent departure, though the knowledge of it moving swiftly through the night to me has, at the moment equal impact.
Despite certain astronomical calculations, the full moon in September is generally considered to be the Harvest Moon, though this year it falls in October. I can say that I feel a good measure of satisfaction looking back upon at all the scrambling and beuracratic jogging I had to do to get here, but more importantly the classes I've achieved to get here. In many ways, this is the academic vacation for obtaining my AA in December- no occasion to really make a scene over, but I'm still proud of it; it is mine to enjoy and savor. Why not savor and seek more at the same time?
It is very appropriate that both moons which carry the connotation of reaping rewards would fall within the time prior to my departure and just after my arrival; The Harvest Moon of September, and the Blood Moon of October. (The Blood Moon for the long time past practice of slaughtering animals for the winter months.) Being of the persuasion that I am, I am very grateful for those within my life that have given me the focus and drive to carry on, both corporeal and beyond, who may or may not have known their influence.
I believe I shall sleep on the roof tonight, under the stars and that shining globe of fulfillment and accomplishment which sails ever elegantly through the cold dark, coloring everything with her delicate, luminous pallor.
I have so much yet to do and so little time to do it in.
I depart in six days.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Financial Aid is Fun.
Sarcasm is the key word at this juncture.
Little did I know the paperwork necessary for my airline ticket to be mailed to me that I might depart in a weeks time was incomplete. Commence frantic running, yelling, signing, and scanning.
A several lengthy phone calls, paper goose-chases and two e-mails later, we should be set as of tomorrow morning when everything is received by the officials on the other end.
In other news my cat mauled me today...
Sadly I won't be able to see them in Europe, they are playing at a rock festival in Germany the day of my London orientation.
Enjoy.
I depart in ten days.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Meeting and Greeting
I've just exchanged some communique with my London roommate.
She seems really, really nice and I'm quite excited to get to know her, among the other students, and UK nationals.
Today is my last day of honest work for a long while, and though unrealistic, I hope it will be last day of honest work forever. But we'll see about that.
I've cut down my travel itinerary from many nations to the few of: Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Italy and maybe France. Again, we'll see. Though I do need to make plans soon. XD
Finally, after coming home from watching Inglorious Basterds, again, I received a post card from my host family, a mother and her son. I'm terribly excited. X3
I depart in thirteen days.
She seems really, really nice and I'm quite excited to get to know her, among the other students, and UK nationals.
Today is my last day of honest work for a long while, and though unrealistic, I hope it will be last day of honest work forever. But we'll see about that.
I've cut down my travel itinerary from many nations to the few of: Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Italy and maybe France. Again, we'll see. Though I do need to make plans soon. XD
Finally, after coming home from watching Inglorious Basterds, again, I received a post card from my host family, a mother and her son. I'm terribly excited. X3
I depart in thirteen days.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Establishing
Popping in an entry to cement this blog to the net.
While I'm at it though I may as well state things as they stand presently.
I will, within a matter of weeks, be traveling overseas to study in London for roughly three months, hence the name. After many odd, unrhythmic and obscene incarnations of namesakes, "Of Black Tea and Bangers" was decided.
Black tea for tea time and bangers for bangers and mash, iconic foods of lovely England.
Currently I still have to send in US Embassy paperwork, payments, buy socks, boots, travelers checks, get scholarships, finish monetary prize contests, overcome a tuckload of separation anxiety and figure out how to make change with British Pounds Sterling. However, London will be where I shall station myself for the next three months come hell or high water, with many an international escapade as well.
I'm currently test driving veganism and wondering how well that will all go over in Europe. I won't lie, I'll probably cheat a lot when it comes to authentic pastas in Italy or scones in Ireland, to name a few.
That should be the basics.
I depart in eighteen days.
While I'm at it though I may as well state things as they stand presently.
I will, within a matter of weeks, be traveling overseas to study in London for roughly three months, hence the name. After many odd, unrhythmic and obscene incarnations of namesakes, "Of Black Tea and Bangers" was decided.
Black tea for tea time and bangers for bangers and mash, iconic foods of lovely England.
Currently I still have to send in US Embassy paperwork, payments, buy socks, boots, travelers checks, get scholarships, finish monetary prize contests, overcome a tuckload of separation anxiety and figure out how to make change with British Pounds Sterling. However, London will be where I shall station myself for the next three months come hell or high water, with many an international escapade as well.
I'm currently test driving veganism and wondering how well that will all go over in Europe. I won't lie, I'll probably cheat a lot when it comes to authentic pastas in Italy or scones in Ireland, to name a few.
That should be the basics.
I depart in eighteen days.
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